


Vulnerable (No Mercy)

by Legendgrass



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Anger, Catharsis, Confusion, F/F, Heavy Angst, I'll move up the rating if need be, Language, Love/Hate, Past Relationship(s), Regret, Self-Hatred, Torture, Violence, first steps toward redemption, leather jacket Catra ;), not terribly graphic but better safe than sorry, s3 ep3, whip Catra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22562926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendgrass/pseuds/Legendgrass
Summary: “I am going back to the Fright Zone."I am going to open a portal."And I am going to crush. You.All."When she emerged out into the dim light again, whip in one hand, Sword of Protection in the other, there was something frightening in her eyes. Somethingferal. The gold looked like fire and the blue like ice. “I’m done suffering because of you. It’s your turn now, Adora.”Adora was at her mercy, and Catra was out of it....Alternate ending to S3 Ep3
Relationships: Past Adora/Catra
Comments: 14
Kudos: 167





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite a bit darker than usual, but cathartic, so enjoy at your own risk

_I’m going to go check on the prisoner._

Not because she cared, no. Catra was done with caring about Adora. About anyone, really.

She wasn’t going because she cared. She was going to gloat. To revel. To bask in her hard-earned victory, which she had achieved against all odds, just like everything else in her life.

She _deserved_ this.

The weight of the Sword of Protection in her hand was a testament to her victory. She rested it on her shoulder, casually showing it off, as she opened the door to the bridge and stepped inside. Into the room where she’d beaten Adora, for good, for the first time.

The atmosphere threatened to choke her as she faced the insufferable blonde she’d once adored. She was chained to a pillar in the center of the deck by a length of rope, head bowed and shadows beneath her eyes as she stared at the floor, probably beating herself up internally for her most recent failure.

There was no need. Catra was about to do all the work for her.

She paced into the faint light streaming in through the broken portholes, purposely making her footfalls a little heavier, so Adora would notice her.

Notice she did.

Her head snapped up, and before Catra could even get out her usual “hey, Adora,” she was lurching forward, straining at her bonds, shouting, 

“Catra! You can’t do this.”

Catra rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. Here Adora was, chained to a pillar while her enemy stood over her armed to the teeth, and still she was giving orders. How _typical._ “Oh, yeah?” the cat sighed out heavily. “What can’t I do this time?”

Adora was trying to pin her with those intense blue-gray eyes, but it was way less effective from her position on the ground. “Hordak is trying to open a portal. He wants to bring the rest of the Horde army through to Etheria. We can’t let that happen,” she insisted. Her voice had that steely quality that fooled most people into thinking she had everything under control, but the trembling edge of panic to it didn’t escape Catra’s sharp hearing.

She grinned viciously. “Why would I be against more Horde?” she drawled, approaching Adora until she could kneel beside her, forearm casually resting on the Sword of Protection. So close, and yet so far. Just rubbing in Adora’s inability to fulfill her _precious_ destiny. “That means we win and you lose.”

“We’ll _all_ lose if Hordak uses his portal machine. Opening a portal will endanger everyone. We’re running out of _time._ ” Adora went on, her voice rising in desperation. She pulled at the ropes again, trying to lean in closer like that might make Catra change her mind. “You have to listen to me!”

Catra scoffed and stood, leisurely retreating a few steps away just to show the stupid blonde that she had _no_ power over her. She feigned interest in the way the sword caught the moonlight from above. Really, a question was nagging at the front of her mind. “How do _you_ know about what Hordak’s doing, anyway?” she voiced it, trying to sound casual.

“Shadow Weaver told me. We know all about Hordak’s plan.”

Catra stilled. Her hand with the sword in it fell to her side limply. “ _S_ _hadow Weaver_ told you?” she repeated softly. She turned her head to look over her shoulder at Adora, her face empty but for a familiar fire flickering up around the edges. “How exactly did _Shadow Weaver_ tell you this?” She spun fully back around, tension trickling into every inch of her body as the answer lurked far nearer than she liked, hand growing strangle-tight on the sword.

  
“You didn’t know?” asked Adora faintly, the urgency fading from her expression to be replaced by fear; _concern._

It made Catra’s whole coat bristle. She lunged for Adora, seized her stupid collar in her fist, and wrenched her up so their faces were an inch apart. Adora’s gasp barely even registered with her over the sound of her heartbeat pounding faster and harder by the second. She knew exactly what was coming and she couldn’t. _Stand_ it. “ _How?_ ” she demanded anyway, blood boiling when Adora barely flinched.

“Catra…” she began, voice so soft, eyes so full of tender regret, and Catra wanted to _tear her apart._ “Shadow Weaver is in Bright Moon.”

There it was.

The truth.

Catra felt all feeling drain instantly out of her except pure, white-hot fury, so potent that it made her go deathly still. She let Adora’s collar slip from her hand and stood, eyes going terrifyingly distant. “Shadow Weaver left me for you,” she murmured into empty space. Because of _course._ Of _course_ she had. Of _course_ after everything she’d done for the Horde, _Adora_ was still the one Shadow Weaver wanted. _Adora_ got all the approval. The concern. The care. The companionship. The glory. The praise. _Adora_ had ruined everything, _again._

Catra turned that piercing, unfocused stare on her. “ _All_ of this _happened_ because of _you_ ,” she accused, voice still dangerously quiet, but her control was unraveling. Her hands were shaking around the weapons in her hands, and everything around her was fading into the background to be swallowed up by one massive stormcloud of _hatred._

“Catra. Catra, you can’t do this!” Adora tried to call out, but Catra barely heard her.

All she could hear was the ringing in her ears and the ragged in-out of her own breath.

None of it mattered. Nothing mattered. No matter what Catra did, Adora would still smother her with her shadow.

Adora would always haunt the corners of her mind and taint the taste of her success.

Unless she did something about it.

Something within her snapped, and the shards pierced her insides.

“I am going back to the Fright Zone,” she decided. She stormed back across the bridge to the door and punched the control panel so it slid closed. “I am going to open a portal.” She spoke from the shadows. A drop of blood slid off her knuckles and hit the floor beside her. “And I am going to crush. You. _All_.” 

When she emerged out into the dim light again, whip in one hand, Sword of Protection in the other, there was something frightening in her eyes. Something _feral._ The gold looked like fire and the blue like ice. “I’m done suffering because of you,” she snarled. “It’s your turn now, Adora.”

She began to pace toward the other girl, slowly, low to the ground like a predator stalking her prey. The weapons glinted in her hands, just as hungry for blood as the all-consuming hatred in her eyes.

“What do you want?” Adora tried to demand, though she couldn’t keep the tremor from her voice.

Catra laughed sharply; darkly. What did she want? Wasn’t it obvious, now? “Since when is that something _you_ care about?” 

When Adora only shifted uneasily in her bonds and frowned, Catra deigned to give her a hint. She twitched her wrist to the side and let her whip come unfurled, the tip hitting the floor with a foreboding _pat._ The way the color drained from the blonde’s face made her chest fill with the pressure of satisfaction. Of _victory._ _This_ is the feeling she’d wanted for so long. _This_ is what the whole world had deprived her of for so long. It couldn’t keep her from it now.

“I want to put you in your place,” she hissed, in case the point hadn’t yet gotten through Adora’s thick skull. She slunk closer, greedy to see the dawning fear on her face. “Call it payback for _eighteen years_ of living as your shadow. Your scapegoat. Your punching bag. Your _pet._ ” She spat each insult with increasing poison. By the last word, her shadow was hovering over the other girl, the way it _should_ be.

“I never thought of you that way!” Adora protested.

“ _Bullshit_ you didn’t!” Catra barked, lashing out suddenly. 

Adora’s head whipped to the side. It stayed there for a breathless moment, stunned by the force of the blow. When the blonde slowly turned back to face the other girl, her right eyebrow was split, bleeding. The pommel of the Sword of Protection was stained.

“We were bound to end up like this eventually, weren’t we?” Catra kept talking, low and dangerous, as if Adora had never interrupted. She crouched and put the sword down. With her freed hand she reached out and took the blonde’s chin in her palm, and Adora’s unconscious flinch ( _now_ she was afraid) made her tail twitch with pleasure. “A whole lifetime of being pitted against each other by Shadow Weaver, Hordak— _everyone,_ ” she reflected, tilting her head to stare right into the blue-gray eyes that had looked down on her all her life. They weren’t so haughty now. “It only made sense for one of us to come out on top eventually.” Her voice dropped to a menacing growl. “And I’m _so_ glad it was me.” On _so,_ she tightened her grip on Adora’s chin suddenly, claws digging viciously into her jaw. Three red lines were left in their wake.

“Augh—!” Adora’s cry of pain was strangled as Catra switched her grip to her throat and shoved her back against the pillar, hard. Her head struck the metal and her eyes went unfocused for a second.

“How does it feel to lose, Adora?” Catra purred, loosening her grip to run her thumb reverently over the blonde’s vulnerable jugular. She let her claw come out just enough to make a scratch. To make a point.

Adora’s throat jumped in a swallow before those blue-gray eyes were back on Catra, intense as ever. As if her life weren’t hanging in the balance right now. “We were supposed to be on the same side, Catra. We were going to win, together,” she reminded her earnestly.

“ _You_ were the one who ruined that!” the feline flew into a rage again, her mane bristling, and once again Adora’s head hit the pillar. This time Catra released her, picked up the sword again and stepped back, and the blonde slumped against her restraints, her forehead sinking to the ground. Catra could hear her deep, ragged breaths from where she stood. Or maybe those were her own.

Impossible. _This is what I’ve always wanted,_ she reminded herself. This was her moment of truth.

“You ruined everything,” she growled. Her raised her whip with grim intent. “And I’m going to make you pay.”

“I’m _sorry_ , Catra!” Adora picked herself off the ground to cry out, as if it mattered. She shook her head and her hair swung around her face, half fallen from its tie. “This is never what I wanted.”

Catra’s lips peeled back from her teeth furiously. “Too late for that, _princess_ ,” she spat with all the venom the term had connoted in the Horde, and no longer was the nickname just a tease. It wasn’t even an insult. 

It was a death sentence. 

“It’s time you figured out that not even the perfect She-Ra can always get what she wants.” To underscore her words she shook out her whip again, watching the way Adora’s desperate eyes watched the tip twitch threateningly.

“It’s not me you should be fighting, it’s Horde Prime! Do you _want_ the world to be destroyed?” the blonde held out frantically.

Catra shrugged, finding that that implication bothered her less than she’d expected. The only thing she really cared about at this point was revenge. And the object of it: Adora. She felt it burning up her throat with fresh abandon and before she knew it, she was saying: “As long as you’re in it.”

Adora didn’t have time to respond before Catra’s whip came cracking down on her bent back, and that stupid jacket she still wore became a little less immaculate. When she looked up afterward, Catra didn’t know whether the tears in her eyes were from the pain or the words she’d just spoken.

“How did we come to this, Catra?” she whispered miserably.

“You really are slow aren’t you? Didn’t you hear a word I _just said?_ ” Catra’s voice raised to a roar at the end and she punctuated it with another lash of her whip. This time the blow came down on the blonde’s shoulder and laid open jacket, shirt and skin all in one vicious sting. Catra’s lips curled cruelly at the broken noise the girl let out. The sight of the blood sliding down her collarbone from the wound sparked something deep and dangerous within her. Something that raged with the need to be fed, yet never promised to be satisfied. She’d felt it before, of course, as she glared into She-Ra’s crystal blue gaze from across a battlefield: the need to hurt. She hadn’t been able to fulfill it then. The stupid mighty warrior goddess was just too strong, too steady, too indestructible. Sink your claws into her flesh and she would just close the wound again like it had never happened. Throw all your strength into an attack and she would just bat you aside like a fly.

But _now_ —

Now she was just Adora, and she could _bleed._

And Catra was going to make her.

Adora raised her head creakily to look at her and apparently mistook her pause for hesitation. Her face looked gray in the wan light, except for the spots of red in her cheeks. The ones she got when she cried. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it. I won’t stop you,” she hissed through a throat hoarse from abuse.

For an instant Catra was frozen with shock. She took in Adora’s sad state: her hands still tied, her face scarred, her shirt torn. Then she felt a maniacal laugh bubble up from her chest and threw her head back to let it out. The shrill sound echoed around the abandoned interior of the ship and came back to her ears hauntingly. She barely recognized her own voice. She didn’t care. 

She whipped her head back down and snarled at Adora, “You’re _still_ telling me what to do? After I’ve beaten you? Captured you? Proven that I’m _better_ than you?” She laughed again, and the sharpness of it made the other girl flinch. “Isn’t that _just_ like you?” In a heartbeat the crazy mirth on her face melted away, and an angry mask replaced it. “Well guess what, Adora? I don’t need your _permission_ anymore to do whatever the hell I want to you.” She prowled closer, leaned over her enemy, grasped her by the shoulder _right_ atop the wound she’d just made—the tears leaked free of Adora’s eyes—and flattened her back against the pillar. Their faces were dangerously close together—a ghost of the way they had ended up so often before, when the danger was for a different reason. “And you. _Can’t._ Stop me.”

Adora had never looked so small. Her breath was coming out bated, shallow, ragged. It buffeted against Catra’s own lips but she felt none of the electricity that would have once caused her. Instead it made her even angrier. She wanted absolutely no part of Adora affecting her again. _She_ was the one in charge now. _She_ was the one in control.

Adora was at her mercy, and Catra was out of it.

She drove her fist into the blonde’s sternum before either could speak another word.

Adora doubled over, coughing and choking, and Catra stepped back to watch her, a little tendril of satisfaction snaking through her with every throe. It might have scared her, before. Before her sole purpose in life became crushing Adora beneath her heel until she shattered. But now—now it filled her with the fuel she needed to achieve that purpose. 

Before Adora had caught her breath, Catra closed in again. 

She swung the Sword of Protection, not at Adora but at the bonds securing her to the pillar. The blade sheared through the ropes with a _snap_ and Adora crumpled forward onto her face at the sudden lack of resistance. Still wheezing, the blonde turned her head to strain a look up at Catra; questioning, pleading.

A mistake.

Catra’s foot shot forward and struck her in the jaw, making her head snap back and the rest of her careen to the side. As she lay there reeling, her eyes tried mightily to refocus before the feline’s next attack came, but it was useless. All she could do was cower and groan and raise her bruised arms in a futile attempt to shield herself from more abuse. Catra snorted disdainfully at the display. She’d honestly been expecting more. Looks like all that She-Ra strength didn’t carry over into Adora’s body. Catra must have painted a more impressive picture of her in her memories of training in the Horde. That or Bright Moon really had made her soft.

Catra knelt down beside her, leaning on the Sword of Protection again so that it was fully within Adora’s line of sight, but out of her reach. She tilted her cheek against the pommel and watched her regain her senses. “Where’s everyone’s favorite hero now?” she murmured to the bloodied, winded girl who had once been as much to her. “Where’s that perfect, golden little girl who hung the fucking stars?”

Adora couldn’t form an answer, each breath rattling too painfully in her throat to even try. She could only uncurl herself from her defensive ball enough to raise her head slightly and spit a mouthful of blood to the side. Her lip was swollen and dripping with a lingering stream of red, and she ran her tongue along it and winced.

And, suddenly, Catra was reminded of the time she had done the same—once, after Shadow Weaver found out about them sharing a less than platonic moment in the locker room—it had been nothing, really; just a play-fight that ended a little too slow, a little too tender, with a little too much chance for Catra to realize, for the first time, just how much she liked feeling the swells of Adora’s abs under her palms and seeing her blue-gray eyes sparkling up from beneath her. But Shadow Weaver had slapped the label of _fraternizing_ upon it, and slapped Catra across the face, too, so that her sharp canines cut into her cheek and drew red. The same color that now dotted the metal floor by Adora’s head.

Catra was momentarily thrown off balance, so much so that she jerked to her feet and staggered back a step. But she snapped out of it quickly, clawing up a new surge of resentment from the neverending pool of it in her heart. _She deserves it,_ she reminded herself. _She deserves to feel the pain that I felt._ Fury stoked by that thought, she shoved Adora’s shoulder with her foot so that the blonde collapsed onto her back, and then aimed a kick into her ribs. The impact was solid, but it wasn’t enough. She cocked her foot back again, dragging viciously with her claws as she went.

The next kick was harder, swifter. Something beneath her toes went _crunch._ Adora yelped in pain, curling up again instantly to cradle her damaged torso. Her hair fell around her contorted face and it made Catra hiss, because she wanted to _see_ the agony written across it, but she contented herself with watching as tears leaked from Adora’s eyes to wet the hard metal floor—

Just like Catra’s had done after a nasty bout of weapons training, when Adora had beat her with a little-too-enthusiastic blow to the chest and she felt something crack under the pressure. The blonde had apologized nonstop until her voice gave out, of course, and after that she made up for it without words: supporting a limping Catra all the way to the infirmary, helping the heavy-handed medic correct her wounds, remaining by her side until Rogelio literally had to carry her out and force her to eat her first meal in days. They always protected each other like that. They stood by each other like that. Even when it was one of them who’d hurt the other, they went to every possible length to make things right again.

_What a lie,_ Catra snarled internally, forcing herself to turn the memory into fuel for her anger rather than a point of weakness. Adora had forfeit their relationship as soon as she chose the enemy over her. She’d gambled away everything they’d built for a stupid magic sword and a stupid princess Rebellion. _She_ was the one who chose this. _She_ was the one who turned Catra into her nemesis. _She_ was the one to blame.

Catra twisted the memory until it was sharp and jagged and fit to use as a weapon. 

And use it she did.

She let out a vicious noise as her feet carried her forward to bound onto Adora’s body, one trapping her wrist to the ground and the other pressing right into the ribs she’d just fractured. Any protest Adora might have made was cut off as Catra seized her throat with one hand. The other was clutching itself white around the hilt of the Sword of Protection, settling the tip in the hollow where Adora’s collarbones met. Catra felt like she was on _fire,_ every nerve in her body boiling with rage, and if there was any moment in time that she’d ever felt prepared to _end_ this, it was now. Now, with Adora reduced to a crumpled heap beneath her, blood welling up where her own _fucking_ magic blade was cutting into her skin, farther from her precious invincible goddess role (the one that was worth leaving Catra for) than night was from day, lying on her back practically _begging_ to be slain. Catra felt ready to watch the light drain from her enemy’s eyes and feel the relief of freeing herself from her influence forever.

She could do it. She would do it.

Her hand was steady on the sword and Adora’s heartbeat was racing under her touch, reverberating through her body, growing in speed like it was careening toward the edge of something—a breaking point. The blonde’s unpinned hand shot up to clutch her wrist, and she knew her own pulse was doing the same.

_This is it. I can win. I can be free._

_Finally._

Catra took a deep breath, forcing herself to stare down into _those fucking eyes_ as she—

“Catra,” Adora choked out, and it was only a whimper—

The exact same tone she would be reduced to after a nasty nightmare, when she woke up trembling and sweating and reaching for Catra before her eyes had even adjusted to the dark. Catra had felt closest to her during those nights, and not just because she spent them holding her friend tight, stroking her dampened hair, urging her to find comfort in the steady beat of her own heart, which Adora could just barely hear if she pressed her ear to her chest. No, she felt it because, during those nights, she and Adora were the closest to equal. When they were training, Adora was always stronger than her. When they were socializing, Adora was always better-liked than her. When they received punishment, Adora was always let off more lightly than her. But on nights like these, with the Horde’s golden girl crying softly into her embrace, Catra was the strong one. The needed one. The desirable one. That was when they were closest: when Adora was vulnerable.

The memory hit Catra like a shock baton. This one, she could not warp into something darker. She could not mistake it for anything but what it had been. The stark contrast of violent reality with the softness of their past made her head light. Now, it was not Shadow Weaver who had reduced Adora to tears. It was not nightmares that had sent her to her knees in a broken mess. It was not the risk of hot, frightening, forbidden emotions that had made her vulnerable.

It was Catra.

Catra, the one who had carried her through all the heartache and tribulation and pain of their childhood together. Catra, who had been by her side since the beginning. Catra, who had once cared for her and protected her and—and _loved_ her—

Now holding the sword.

Now making her cry.

Now making her bleed.

Now about to _kill_ her.

And yet, the name that Adora choked out at her most vulnerable—

It was still hers.

It felt like there was ice water trickling into her veins. It slowly washed away the anger, the bloodlust, the burning urge to exact her revenge, the haze that had narrowed her world to the tip of the sword and Adora’s throbbing throat. It left behind nothing but a chill. An empty, freezing, sickening feeling that sapped the energy from her limbs and stole the air from her lungs.

She had almost—

There was a deafening clatter. Catra swiveled her head to find the source and realized that the Sword of Protection had fallen from her hand. She stared at it, uncomprehending. 

She could see her own reflection in the blade. At least, it must have been her own reflection. She barely recognized the figure staring back at her. Its eyes were hollow, haunted, sparking with something that looked like panic. Its cheeks were gaunt and its edges sharp and teeth bared to kill. What she saw wasn’t her; it was a beast. It was driven by nothing but rage and the emotion was eating it away from the inside out. And it _scared_ her.

When she raised her head, unable to look at the monster that was herself any longer, she could see Adora— _really_ Adora, not the personification of all Catra loathed shoved into one girl’s body, like she’d blinded herself by for all this time. Adora, with her shining gold hair, now dirty and lank; her tender blue-gray eyes, now fearful and full of tears; her warm, muscled body, now torn into shreds.

Catra could still feel her heartbeat under her fingers.

She had almost stopped it forever.

Catra found herself on her feet, clear of Adora’s battered body, shaking all over. She couldn’t—she couldn’t think. She couldn’t comprehend. All she could feel was _cold,_ and _fear_ , and _shame_ , and Adora was looking up at her, and it was all too much.

She turned and fled.

She left the Sword of Protection on the ground behind her. She never wanted to touch it again. She never wanted to see it again.

She never wanted to see herself again.

…


	2. Chapter 2

Catra could have let Scorpia deliver Adora's meals for the duration of their stay. She could have avoided the other girl like the plague; avoided the responsibility; avoided the agony of facing the truth of her actions, and she  _ wanted  _ to, with every fiber of self-preservation she had left. It would be easier to let someone else patch up Adora's bloodied body and keep her fed until it was time to present her to Hordak as the crown jewel of the Rebellion’s defeat. It would be even easier to just let her waste away in the darkness of her own failure and leave her bones for the next She-Ra to find. 

It would be easier, but it wouldn’t be better.

If Catra hoped to ever redeem herself (which was a big  _ if _ , but she did not know how else to banish the guilt now eating her alive), she would have to face Adora eventually. Why not swallow that bitter pill now?

She could think of a thousand reasons, but the gnawing in the very core of her being won out.

So here she stood just on the other side of the door to the bridge, hands white-knuckled and trembling on a tray of ugly gray ration bars. Dimly she wondered if Adora would even deign to eat them, now that she’d grown accustomed to whatever tripe Bright Moon’s fancy kitchens had to offer, but sick logic told her that the princess was more likely to refuse food because of her ruined throat. Damage Catra had inflicted.

Catra wasn’t used to fearing the consequences of her actions. She’d always been strong enough to withstand whatever backlash the world threw at her. But now, when her rage and insecurity had almost cost  _ Adora  _ her  _ life _ —now that she’d found how little violence really did to remedy the storm inside her—how little she actually enjoyed hurting her once-friend—

This was an entirely new field of battle.

She took a deep, shaky breath to quell the panic rising at the prospect of facing the face of her sins, failed, and pressed the button to open the door anyway. 

The daylight streaming through the windows above cast the bridge in a far different light from last night. Everything was brighter and bluer, even the shadows at the back of the room where Adora was confined. Somehow, the new contrast made the sight worse. Catra's deeds could not be confined to the dark anymore. They felt more real, now; more pressing.

Like she didn’t already feel like enough of a wreck.

She kept her eyes down as she crossed the space, trying not to look over at the place where Adora's blood was clearly visible against the steely floor, or the spot where a tattered flyaway from her torn jacket had come to rest. She tried not to think about the blows that had drawn that blood, or the rampant rage that had consumed her, or how close she’d come to—

Adora came into view.

She lay on the floor, back to the entrance, exactly where Catra had left her, as if she hadn’t had the willpower to move (after all, why would she?). Catra had a perfect view of the two whip marks slashing across her back, and she squeezed her eyes shut to try to quell her rising nausea.

She opened them again at a faint noise: a rustling of a familiar red jacket. Adora was moving, slowly, rolling over just enough to regard Catra over her shoulder with that pair of peerless blue-gray eyes. They were now hollow, red-rimmed, full of pain. Resigned. Expecting another beating.

Catra's throat closed up. She couldn’t face those eyes. Not yet. She’d been foolish to come. But at the same time, how could she live with herself without  _ trying?  _ After—

She looked away quickly and cleared her aching throat, suddenly desperate to fill the silence with something other than the blood of fresh memories.

“I, um—” Her voice barely worked. She coughed. “I brought…food.” It was lame, but she could not collect her thoughts enough to manage anything better. She could feel her heartbeat pounding in every inch of her body, too hard, too fast. Her hands tightened on the tray. The ration bars piled on its surface looked about as appetizing as vomit. A poor attempt at reparations, just like anything else Catra could ever do. Should she even bother?

What choice did she have?

“I’ll just leave it here.” She took a slow, hesitant step forward, hoping Adora would feel less threatened if she approached that way. When the other girl didn’t move, just continued to stare into her blackened soul with those  _ eyes,  _ Catra chanced another step closer, then stopped. She trained her own eyes downward as she set the tray on the floor and pushed it towards Adora's wounded back. Briefly she wondered if the blonde could even roll herself over enough to reach it, but she felt that an offer to feed her the gray sludge by hand was an overstep.

Instead she ventured, “Do you…want anything? Else?”—And what a  _ stupid  _ question, because of  _ course _ Adora wanted something else. She wanted to be freed of this miserable bondage on her ancestor’s ship; she wanted Catra to be a decent person; she wanted her friends back; she wanted to fulfill her destiny; she wanted a chance to  _ live.  _ But all Catra could offer her was a pile of tasteless nutrients on a tray. All she could do was make sure she didn’t die of starvation.

That was a one-eighty from her goals of the previous day, she supposed.

She sighed and stood without waiting for Adora to answer, because she knew she wouldn’t. She turned away quickly to hide the tears that were climbing into her eyes again (she was so tired of crying).

“I’m—” Should she say it? Should she even go there? Would an apology even begin to fill the grave that she’d dug herself into? Would Adora accept it, or laugh in her face? —That is, if she even could laugh. Catra had ruined even that. She paused, the unspoken words hanging in the air long enough to choke her.

She hung her head.  _ No, _ she decided. It wouldn’t be enough.

She left without finishing her sentence. She could still feel Adora's gaze boring into her back.

… 

Scorpia caught her on the way out.

“Catra! There’s a call for you,” the tall woman crowed from a short way down the passage, waving a communication tablet in one claw. She was jogging in Catra's direction from the outskirts of the ship, and judging by the flush in her cheeks, she’d come all the way from their makeshift camp outside. When she reached the feline she came to a stop and lowered her voice to a (still very loud) whisper between her huffing breaths. “It’s Lord Hordak.” She held out the device to her colleague. 

“Okay. Thanks, Scorpia,” Catra said shortly, trying not to grimace. She accepted the tablet and the other Force Captain gave her a tentative claws-up before retreating a respectful few paces down the passage. Once she was out of earshot, Catra pressed the button on the side of the tablet to accept the incoming communication, schooling her face into a familiar but now uncomfortable mask of cocky indifference. She settled it in place just before the screen transitioned and an image of Lord Hordak’s skeletal visage filled the space.

“Greetings, Force Captain Catra,” the Horde’s master drawled in a way that managed to sound condescending without even trying. “I hear you’ve finally bested the mighty She-Ra.”

To hear it phrased that way gave Catra a spike of soaring satisfaction, but now that feeling was tainted with regret. She subtly scratched the tips of her claws into the back of the communication device to ground herself. “Yes, Lord Hordak. She’s locked up, and I have the sword. She’s completely under our control,” she reported, trying to inject some of her usual gloating sauciness into the admission, but it came out strained. She hoped Hordak was too preoccupied with the news to notice.

“Good,” he growled out, a hint of a sinister grin curling his white lips. “Then it’s time to execute the final step of my plan.”

Catra swallowed.  _ Final step?  _ That just meant forcing Adora back into the Horde, right? That was the plan as far as she’d heard. She hoped she was just imagining the dark implication behind his words.

“Right,” she began, voice coming out raspy, “I’ll be bringing her back to the Fright Zone as soon as we’re done here.”

“Force Captain.” Hordak’s voice held a note of contrived rebuke, like a parent patronizing a child far too grown for lectures. “Surely you’re aware that that won’t be necessary anymore. Our situation has changed.”

Catra felt ice flood her veins. “I—don’t understand. Sir.” Her throat was tight.

“It’s come to my attention that Shadow Weaver—” He spat her name. “—has sided with the enemy. If I no longer have access to her…particular skillset, I have no way of convincing  _ She-Ra _ to rejoin our cause.” He gave a little shrug and rested his chin on one claw, so  _ fucking  _ smug. “As long as she lives, she is nothing but a danger to the Horde.”

In the wake of those fateful words, he tilted his head as if studying Catra's reaction, scanning her for signs of weakness.

And Catra tried to keep it under control, but she could feel her heart picking up speed, horror and anger and fear pricking at the back of her neck. “Wh-what are you asking me to do?” She was unable to keep the stammer out of her sentence.

“I think it should be obvious, Force Captain.” The glee in Hordak’s narrowed red eyes was absolutely  _ contemptible _ . He sat back in his chair leisurely, that ugly smile still gracing his lips, like he had just asked no more of her than an inventory of the kitchens. His free claw went to the control panel on the armrest. “Notify me when the deed has been done.” 

And with that, he switched off the transmission, leaving Catra staring in horror at a dark, empty screen.

The abrupt silence apparently made Scorpia think that that was her cue to come hurrying back down the hall, all too cheerful for  _ any  _ of this bullshit. “So, what did Hordak—?”

Then she got a look at Catra's face and bit off her words. She took a few careful steps closer, one claw partially extending in concern. “Whoa, are you okay, boss?”

Catra was in no condition to answer that. “Scorpia,” she hissed out instead on a shuddering breath through her teeth. Her whole body was trembling, and she could hear the tablet creak under the pressure of her clenched hands.

“Yeah?” Scorpia pulled both claws up to her mouth, the picture of helpless worry.

“Get out. Now.”

The scorpion’s brows furrowed and her mouth dropped open like she wanted to argue, but she’d spent enough time around Catra to know better. A tense beat passed, and then she nodded in anxious concession and backed away. She hazarded a final glance back at Catra's tortured form before turning and retreating out of sight.

As soon as she was gone, Catra snapped.

She wound her arm back and flung the tablet across the hall with a ragged cry. Its screen shattered against the wall and the frame hit the ground in twisted pieces. 

Catra stared at the broken shards (they looked like the way her heart felt) and didn’t feel any better.

She let out another furious groan, buried her hands in her mane and sank her claws into her scalp as she began to hyperventilate.  _ I can’t. I can’t, not again. I can’t hurt her.  _ The mask on her brow suddenly felt constricting, and she gripped it and threw it off to land beside the broken tablet. Now her face was fully exposed, and all that did was let her feel the sweat beading at her temples in full clarity. 

Her vision was tunneling, her breaths still coming fast. She planted her hands on her knees and focused her blurry eyes on a bolt in the floor, trying to regain  _ control. _

Hordak wanted her to—

To—

To do the  _ one thing  _ that she’d determined she’d never try again, and she  _ couldn’t _ —

Catra's head spun. She fell to her knees and released her claws from her head to slash them into the floor instead. Long, deep marks were left behind—just like the ones on Adora's back. The ones Catra had made. The ones she now regretted almost as much as her brush with  _ murder _ . She stared at them until they began filling with water, one drop at a time, which confused her until she raised her fingers to her face and realized she was crying onto them.

“No,” she choked out, ripping her hand away from her face before she could ruin that with her claws, too. She lowered her head so her forehead pressed into the slash marks and imagined it was the warm, scarred skin of Adora's back. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed to the empty passageway, wishing she had the courage to actually say it to all the people she’d hurt before. Her own voice echoed back at her like the taunting knowledge that no apology would ever be enough.

She couldn’t hurt Adora again. No matter what Hordak said. No matter what it would mean for her future in the Horde—or out of it. She’d done enough to ruin her once-friend’s life already. She couldn’t do it again.

She  _ wouldn’t  _ do it again.

She breathed raggedly against the cold floor and let that promise lend her a tiny sliver of peace.

“I’m  _ sorry _ , Adora. I’ll be better, this time.”

… 

When she reached the bridge to deliver Adora's meal on the second day, Catra was even more nervous than last time.

It took her two deep breaths before she gave up on settling her twisting stomach and opened the door.

Seeing the room where she’d almost killed Adora didn’t hit her as hard as it had yesterday. Maybe because of the new resolve solidified in her gut; the new purpose she’d ordained for herself. Maybe it was just because her nerves were so fried she could no longer feel anything in high relief.

In any regard, it was easier to cross to Adora's bowed shape where she sat against a pillar. It was the same one she’d been tied to; the sheared ropes still lay in pieces around her. She seemed not to see them, instead simply staring at the floor between her crossed legs. She had one arm curled round her torso protectively. Her face was gray in the light. Catra could hear the wheeze in her breath even from several paces away.

In front of her, right where Catra had left it, was yesterday’s tray of ration bars. From the look of the pile, she’d barely made a dent in the meal, if she’d touched it at all. However, it was marginally encouraging that the blonde had managed to lever herself up enough to reach it. Catra was guiltily glad that her rib injury wasn’t totally debilitating. Judging by her condition, though, she would have to eat a lot more if she was going to survive for very long.

Especially from this particular tray.

Catra approached her, slowly like before, and lowered herself to her knees a short distance away. This time before she put the tray down she chewed her lip anxiously, mulling over her options. She  _ needed  _ Adora to eat from the rations in her hand. She also needed to be there when it happened. But she couldn’t count on either if the blonde was set against it. How could she get Adora to trust her enough to listen to her?

She figured simply asking was the best start. “Adora,” she said softly into the scarred air between them. She nudged the new tray closer. “Please eat.”

For a long moment—long enough for Catra to doubt that she would ever answer—Adora said nothing. Did nothing. She didn’t even raise her eyes from the floor. She seemed to be looking right through it, at something infinitely far away (maybe the prospect of making it through the day). Catra couldn’t tell if she was willfully ignoring her or simply too zoned out to manage speech.

But then, just as Catra was beginning to lose faith in her plan, the blonde stirred.

All she did was raise her head a fraction; enough to allow her to meet Catra's eyes. The  _ look  _ in them—

The emptiness was the same she’d failed to face yesterday. The complete lack of any warmth; any hope; any feeling besides pure, bland resignation was still enough to knock the wind out of her. The husk of a person gazing back at her was not Adora. It was simply a Horde prisoner on death row—one who knew exactly what was coming and couldn’t find it in herself to fight any longer.

And  _ Catra  _ had made her that way.

“Fuck,” left her lips on a shaky exhale as she sat back on her heels to catch her balance. How could she even—

How did one come back from that?

If Adora no longer wanted to live (because of  _ her  _ ), how could Catra ever change her mind?

“Please,” she begged, panic rising, fur bristling along her spine. She’d never faced this—this  _ lack  _ of Adora before, and it scared her. Had she gone too far this time? Had she lost any chance at redemption whatsoever? She wouldn’t blame Adora if the answer was yes, but she was so  _ afraid _ —

“Adora, please, I don’t want you to die.”

A flicker in those deadened eyes. The hand that wasn’t guarding the blonde’s broken ribs curled slightly, piqued enough for a reaction but too weak for a fist. Her shoulders jumped briefly in a single, faint chuckle.

“Since when?”

Catra ducked her head and winced as if she’d been struck.  _ I asked for it.  _ She just hadn’t expected it to  _ hurt  _ so much. “Since I almost did it,” she croaked through the tears that were stinging at her eyes again _.  _ She didn’t want to live in a world without Adora. She knew that now. She regretted that it had taken such a violent wake-up call to make her see it.

How much had Adora suffered because of her, not just during their stint as arch-nemeses but throughout her whole life? How much had Catra  _ cost  _ her?

The feline hugged herself hard around the middle, wishing she could just fold her body into nonexistence and undo all the suffering that she’d caused since the very beginning. Wishing she could free Adora from the unbearable burden of Catra, just like that.

“I’m  _ sorry, _ ” she managed through a strangling throat, “for everything.”

Again Adora twitched in a sad representation of a sardonic laugh. “You think that fixes anything?” she rasped out, barely audible.

Catra's hands tightened on her own body, claws sinking in. “No, I just—” She didn’t know what she was trying to say. She didn’t know how she’d thought Adora would respond. She guessed she was expecting some semblance of forgiveness. Adora had always been so willing to offer it to her in the past.

Not anymore.

“I don’t know how to fix anything,” she admitted hoarsely, more to herself than the other girl. The realization emptied her out like a massive claw had raked across her gut. “I  _ can’t  _ fix anything.” She felt cold, achingly cold. She  _ missed  _ that old warmth in Adora's eyes. “But I can try.” The words didn’t hold much conviction. She had to try, no matter how useless it felt. How useless it  _ was.  _ She had no other option.

All she wanted was Adora back.

As much as overwhelming shame urged her to simply turn and disappear right then, Catra forced herself to make eye contact with Adora again. There was a little bit more spirit in her grayish irises now. Not necessarily a good kind, but it was something, at least. Catra was amazed by how those eyes, even shadowed as they were, could still shake her to the core. She didn’t let herself look away.

“I  _ want  _ to try,” she repeated, voice rough but a little stronger. She wouldn’t wither under Adora's hollow look. She could help remedy it, if Adora just—

Slowly, unsteadily, the blonde reached out her free hand for the tray of ration bars: a compromise. A concession. A peace offering?

Whatever it was, it made Catra’s mind scream  _ yes! _

Catra made sure to offer her the new one. It was important that she ate from the new one. The feline fought down an irrational surge of joy at the small show of trust Adora was allowing her and bit her lip to keep back a smile. This didn’t mean anything; better not to get too excited yet. Adora was probably just too hungry to care anymore that it was Catra feeding her.

The blonde’s fingers picked apart the nearest gray mound and brought a bite to her split lips. The motion pulled Catra's attention to the ugly purple bruise mounting her jawline where she’d kicked her, and Catra winced again. She had many, many apologies left to go before she could atone for what she’d done. Right now, though, the best step she could take was to watch Adora chew down the first chunk of the tasteless Horde meal and reach for another. Her mottled throat jumped with each swallow and it must have hurt, but she didn’t slow her pace until she’d eaten the full length of one of the bars.

Catra's heart was beating gradually faster as she watched and waited. One should be enough. Half would be enough, if she was being honest, but one would definitely do the trick. It was only a matter of time. Her eyes flicked rapidly between the depleted tray of food, Adora's mouth, the handful of gray crumbs that had escaped onto her jacket.

Adora was still gazing forlornly into her eyes, but the tiny spark from before had not disappeared. Catra held onto it like a tether, an aspiration for a familiar flame accessible sometime far ahead. She still didn’t look away.

And so, staring Adora down as Adora stared back, Catra could see exactly when the drug took effect.

First Adora's brows furrowed slightly, and she blinked as if to clear her eyes (they wouldn’t clear; it was too late). Then she licked her lips, searching for a late warning sign that something was off (she wouldn’t find it; the chemical was tasteless). Then she brought a hand to her mouth, making a little sound of distress as she realized what was happening, but her coordination had already faded so much that she missed and backhanded herself in the face instead. Her head lolled back and her eyes struggled to refocus and Catra would have thought it funny if it didn’t hurt so much to see her this weak.

“Catra?” the blonde whimpered as her sense of balance slipped away and she tipped to the side.

Without thinking, Catra lurched forward to catch her. Adora couldn’t keep from slumping into her arms. That simple contact sent a shudder through through the feline, even though she could feel Adora's fear-driven heartbeat pounding through her back. Catra's own hands felt shaky; wrong. When was the last time she’d touched Adora without hurting her? When was the last time she’d felt the softness of the blonde’s body against her, without trying to claw it away as fast as possible? When was the last time there was  _ gentleness  _ between them?

Adora jolted abruptly in shock—maybe at the same realization—and her eyes flashed to Catra’s in sudden desperation and the  _ look  _ in them—

It was pure fear.

“Catra,” Adora gasped again, more panicked, and in an effort to console her Catra cradled her sagging body even more gently, even as the blonde made a grab for her wrist and crushed it in her frightened grip. 

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s okay,” she murmured as she watched Adora's chest quit jerking in rapid breaths and slow towards something calmer; her eyelids slide down over fading eyes; her hand loosen around Catra's wrist. Helpless tears beaded in those gray-blue orbs. Catra reached up and wiped them carefully away, trying to put the other girl at ease as the drug quickly did its job.

It still wasn’t enough, and Catra knew that, but she also knew that she was far beyond Adora's trust now. This was the only way she could make sure the princess made it out alive. This was her only chance to make things right.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered a final time as Adora's figure relaxed into unconsciousness with a sigh.

Only then did Catra dare to scoop her into her arms, lever herself up to a standing position, and make for the skiff she’d prepared.

… 

Catra sat by the helm, one hand placed on the tiller as insurance as the skiff raced along its course to Bright Moon. The wind tore at her hair and made her eyes water and it was a welcome distraction from the girl slouched on the deck nearby.

She’d done it. She’d left the Horde.

Well, she had left enough of a backdoor in her plan to conceivably return if this all went horribly wrong, but  _ technically _ , she’d left the Horde.

Everyone back at the Waste thought that she’d killed Adora and was now delivering her body back to the gates of the enemy, to see the looks on their faces when their precious princess fell and failed to rise ever again (she’d explained verbatim)—everyone except Scorpia, that is. She hadn’t even trusted Entrapta with the truth, fearing that she was too close to Hordak for safety.

It was only Scorpia, then, who knew that Catra also didn’t intend to come back with news of her victory. The story they’d settled on was that the rebels, faced with the shocking news of She-Ra’s death, had flown into fits of rage and exacted Catra's life as revenge, so she would be free of Hordak’s influence yet preserve her reputation as his mightiest second-in-command. As long as she never let anyone from the Horde see her face again, she was home free. And if that didn't work out, she could crawl back to Hordak claiming that she'd gone deep undercover and had to fake her death to cover her tracks. He'd forgive her, as long as she presented him with Shadow Weaver's severed head or some other proof of her loyalty. Their plan was airtight, in theory.

Catra had lived long enough to know that no plan was airtight, but she was willing to risk her own safety if it meant rescuing Adora from the jaws of death. She would always choose Adora over herself, from now on. She’d spent enough time destroying for her own sake.

Her gaze drifted toward the blonde, still out like a light, lying on the deck across from her. Catra had settled her as comfortably as was possible on a hard metal surface and laid her own leather jacket across her shoulders as protection from the wind. It was still not enough, but by now Catra was used to the prospect of never paying for her sins. When all of her efforts meant nothing, they somehow meant everything at the same time. So still she tried.

On a terrible whim, Catra reached out for Adora with her free hand, hungry for some kind of warmth. She tried to consider what would pose the least risk of waking the sleeping princess and settled for brushing a lock of golden hair behind her ear.

That single point of stimulation made her heart race and her stomach twist, because she still wasn’t reaccustomed to this gentleness, but it was  _ everything  _ she’d missed for so long ( _ this  _ was what was missing; not revenge) so she didn’t pull back, but ran her fingers through the shining strands again, then again, deeper, so she could feel the silkiness between her fingers, and her awareness began to narrow to nothing but her hand and Adora, and—

Adora stirred.

Catra lurched back like she’d been burned and fell against the helm again in her haste, her heart pounding. It took a moment for her to realize her mane was bristling all over, and she breathed deeply to settle her nerves.

Across the narrow deck, Adora was rising to the surface, despite Catra's intentions to let her rest in her drug-induced slumber. Her eyes flicked to and fro behind her eyelids and she let out a light groan. Catra stayed flattened against the helm as far away from her as possible, not wanting to startle her after…well, everything. 

A quick inhale marked Adora's full awakening. As per her Horde training, she proceeded carefully in her unfamiliar surroundings, staying still besides tensing for action and cracking her eyes open to sweep the area for danger. She was calm, calculated, methodical about it—until her gaze landed on Catra and her hand flew immediately for her sword.

Catra had expected as much. That’s why the blade lay safely behind her, out of reach. She’d nicked it from her campsite in the Waste almost as an afterthought, but she figured Adora would feel lost without it. Without her so-called  _ destiny  _ within reach.

As if pretending she hadn’t just been reaching for a weapon now lost, Adora raised her hand to clutch the corner of the jacket draped over her instead. She ran her thumb over it contemplatively. Catra tried not to let her eyes drift to the blood-rimmed whip mark on Adora's shoulder that she’d intentionally concealed with it and pretended in turn that she hadn’t just been watching Adora sleep.

Adora took a moment to reexamine her surroundings (her eyes widened at the landscape sweeping by on all sides) and rub the grogginess from her face before regarding Catra again. This time her look was less afraid; still guarded, but slightly softer. “Catra…why?” she asked, and her voice cracked painfully. The bruises ringing the column of her neck were more visible out here in broad daylight.

Catra swallowed hard as her own throat ached in empathy. “Hordak ordered you executed. He was going to make me do it,” she explained, finding her own voice scratchy. She looked away from those stilling blue-gray eyes. “I couldn’t. So I broke you out instead.”

“Why?” Adora asked again, a touch stronger. She uncurled a bit from her position and moved as if to prop herself up on one elbow, but the pain in her torso proved too much. She sank back down and settled for watching Catra from the deck.

Catra still avoided facing her, lifting her shoulders in a tiny shrug that said it didn’t matter anyway. “I can’t hurt you anymore.”

_ You still drugged me,  _ Adora could have pointed out, but instead she dedicated her strength to moving again, managing to scoot a little bit closer. “But  _ why?  _ ”

The swirling storm of guilt, regret, and self-loathing that Catra had been dancing around all this time was threatening to break past her defenses. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hand to her forehead as if to force it back. Spots swam behind her eyelids, but it was a welcome distraction. “I’ve felt what it’s really like, and it’s not how I thought it would feel,” she admitted, snarling so she wouldn’t cry. She could feel the tears welling despite her desperate grip over her face.

There was a long stretch during which only the wind filled the silence.

Then: “Now you understand,” came Adora's soft voice.

Catra finally swiveled her head to face her, hand dropping away from leaking eyes. “What?”

“Why I could never do it.”

Those gray-blue eyes,  _ somehow,  _ were looking at her with tenderness again. Catra felt disgusting under that gentle gaze; undeserving. But at the same time it kindled a rush of hope in her chest. If Adora didn’t hate her after everything she’d put her through—if she was subtly confessing to  _ never  _ being able to hate her, even now—maybe there was still a chance for them to make things right. For  _ her  _ to make things right.

She would try, at least. 

Her attention shifted to the bandages she’d packed under Adora's shirt and the wind raking through her golden hair as they sped away from her death sentence. She’d already taken the first step.

“Took me long enough,” she grumbled in shame, feeling the empty hole grow where her towering anger had once lived. She had no idea what to fill it with, now that she did not have Adora to hate.

Actually—she did have one idea.

Adora managed to wriggle herself close enough to reach out and touch Catra. She didn’t, rather extended her hand to lay between them on the ground: an invitation. “It’s never too late,” she whispered into the silence heavier than any blow.  _ For us,  _ was the unspoken end to that promise—a promise that, right now, Catra felt inclined to believe.

After all, she’d spent enough time building up rock-solid walls of loathing and violence, only to have them come crashing down around her, leaving her lonely and defeated in their wake. 

She stared down at her own hands: the ones that had torn Adora apart and nearly ended her life, the ones with the feeling of blood forever caught under the claws, the ones that had clawed their way to the top, only to discover that there was nothing up there but more suffering. Then she looked across at Adora’s: the ones that had held her so tenderly in their days at the Horde, the ones that had wielded the accursed Sword of Protection against her in battle, the ones that had shielded Adora's face from Catra's abuse such a short time ago, now offering a chance at forgiveness.

And every fiber of Catra's being wanted to reach out and take it.

Not just because it was her only option, but because she was  _ tired  _ of living off of hatred. She was  _ tired  _ of being Adora's enemy. She was  _ tired  _ of hurting the girl she loved.

Maybe it was time to try something different, if Adora was offering. 

Maybe it was time to try being vulnerable again.

She licked her lips contemplatively and looked back up at Adora, finally; meeting those eyes that always ended up loving her, against all odds.

And, “Maybe you’re right,” she dared to hope.

… 


End file.
